Their fingers twined, and he looked down at her. Her eyes were shining with love, and Gregory had the most overwhelming, absurd desire to laugh. Just because he could.
Just because he loved her.
But then he noticed that her lips were tightening, too. Around the corners, stifling her own laughter.
And right there, in front of the oddest assortment of witnesses, he swept her into his arms and kissed her with every last drop of his hopelessly romantic soul.
Eventually—very eventually—Lord Haselby cleared his throat.
Hermione pretended to look away, and Richard said, “About that wedding . . .”
With
great reluctance, Gregory pulled away. He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He looked back at Lucy.
And he kissed her again.
Because, really, it had been a long day.
And he deserved a little indulgence.
And God only knew how long it would be before he could actually marry her.
But mostly, he kissed her because . . .
Because . . .
He smiled, taking her head in his hands and letting his nose rest against hers. “I love you, you know.”
She smiled back. “I know.”
And he finally realized why he was going to kiss her again.
Just because.
Epilogue
In which Our Hero and Heroine exhibit the industriousness of which we knew they were capable.
The first time, Gregory had been a wreck.
The second time was even worse. The memory of the first time had done little to calm his nerves. Just the opposite, in fact. Now that he had a better understanding of what was happening (Lucy had spared him no detail, a pox on her meticulous little soul) every little noise was subject to morbid scrutiny and speculation.
It was a damned good thing men couldn’t have children. Gregory took no shame in admitting that the human race would have died out generations earlier.
Or at the very least, he would not have contributed to the current batch of mischievous little Bridgertons.
But Lucy seemed not to mind childbirth, as long as she could later describe the experience to him in relentless detail.
Whenever she wished.
And so by the third time, Gregory was a little more himself. He still sat outside the door, and he still held his breath when he heard a particularly unpleasant groan, but all in all, he wasn’t wracked with anxiety.
The fourth time he brought a book.
The fifth, just a newspaper. (It did seem to be getting quicker with every child. Convenient, that.)
The sixth child caught him completely unawares. He’d popped out for a quick visit with a friend, and by the time he’d returned, Lucy was sitting up with the babe in her arms, a cheerful and not the least bit tired smile on her face.